


Rockaway

by the_rat_wins



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Fourth of July, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 11:50:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1897911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yeah, that’s it, Buck,” he says. “I met this swell dame last week, and she’s coming over to take care of me.”</p><p>“Well, someone should,” Bucky mutters, and Steve can hear the smile in his voice.</p><p>(I'm home sick on Steve Rogers's birthday, and it occurred to me that he probably was sometimes, too. Good thing he has Bucky!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rockaway

**July 4, 1935**

“C’mon, Steve, up and at ’em.” Bucky sits down on the bed next to him, shakes his shoulder a little. “What, we finally get a day off—your birthday, may I add—and you’re gonna spend the whole day sleeping?”

Steve is rolled up tight in the sheets, eyes half closed, his back to Bucky. The hand on his shoulder brings him out of his daze for a second.

“I, uh—” He breaks off, coughing. “I think I’m coming down with something.” The back of his throat feels scratchy and swollen when he tries to swallow. “Don’t know that I’m gonna be much good for going out today.”

Bucky’s hand tightens on his shoulder.

“Hey, what is it, pal?” he says. “Are you breathing okay? Do you think you have a fever?” His hand slides up, pressing against Steve’s forehead. Steve bats it away, but it just lands back on his shoulder, warm and comforting.

“No, nothing like that,” he says. “It’s a sore throat, Buck. Nothing to worry about. Just head out, you’re gonna be late for Sheila’s picnic.”

“Hell with the picnic,” says Bucky stubbornly. “I ain’t going if you’re sick, okay? I’m not leaving you here, alone, sick, on your birthday. That’s not how this works.”

Steve rolls over, and finally looks at his friend. Bucky’s eyes are wide and worried, and his mouth is a tight line, turned down at the corners.

“You’re not my nurse, Barnes,” Steve says. “If I say scram, then scram, all right? You’re making a big deal out of nothing. The only thing I need is some sleep, and that’s the last thing I’m gonna get with you sitting here yapping at me.”

The fact that he’s backtalking seems to convince Bucky that he’s not about to keel over right this second. His face relaxes a little, and he lets go of Steve’s shoulder with one last friendly squeeze.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Bucky says. “Trying to get rid of me, huh? What, you have some dame coming over later?”

“Yeah, that’s it, Buck,” he says, rolling over again to stare out the window next to the bed. It looks out into a closed courtyard in the middle of the building, so all he can see are a blank brick wall, but the light is still nice. “I met this swell dame last week, and she’s coming over to take care of me.”

“Well, someone should,” Bucky mutters, and Steve can hear the smile in his voice. He smiles a little too, even though his head is pounding, and there’s an ache in his bones like it’s February instead of July.

“I’m gonna grab you a glass of water. Do you want anything else? You hungry?”

“No,” says Steve. “Water would be great, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Oh please, like we don’t all know I would be the best waitress the Flatbush Diner's ever had. You gonna tip me good? What about if I smile real cute?” Bucky calls from the kitchen, filling a glass at the tap.

“Do you plan this stuff in advance, or does it just spring into your mind fully formed?” Steve says when Bucky comes back.

“Like Athena from the brow of Zeus, my friend. Now, you gonna drink some of this before I go? Or do I gotta pinch your nose and pour it down?”

Steve groans and rolls over. His arms feel wobbly, but before he can even try to lever himself upright, Bucky is there again, with a steady arm around his shoulders.

He takes a gulp of the water Bucky’s holding to his mouth, but it makes the ache in his throat even sharper, and he pulls away again, flopping back onto the pillow. Bucky puts the glass of water down on the apple crate that serves as a nightstand, and then crouches next to the bed. It’s clear he’s still having doubts about leaving, even though Steve knows he’s been looking forward to this picnic, to seeing Sheila, for a week.

“Okay, is that enough nursemaiding for the day, Miss Barnes? Will you get out of here already?” he says. It comes out more peevish than teasing, but Bucky just grins.

“Aw, you’d think a guy would be nicer to the fellow who hasn’t even given him his birthday present yet.”

Steve shuts his eyes. “Are you kidding me? I told you I didn’t want anything, Bucky,” he says, and this time the annoyance is real. “We don’t have cash to throw around right now on stupid stuff like birthday presents. This is your first day off in—what, three weeks? And we’re barely making the rent as it is. You better not have wasted any of that dough on me.”

God, he feels like a housewife, nagging like this. Hates doing it, but can’t seem to stop himself.

“Would you relax?” Bucky says jovially, like nothing can touch him. Steve feels even worse. “Like I’m dipping into the rent money. I’m just teasin’, all right? Now would you get some sleep, for crying out loud? I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

“Yeah, see ya,” Steve mutters, and turns to face the wall again.

“Get some _sleep_ , birthday boy!” Bucky says over his shoulder on his way out the door. “If I come back and find you sketching . . .” Steve snorts. His sketchbook is on the kitchen table, which at the moment might as well be Egypt.

Bucky clatters down the stairs, and Steve hears the front door slam. Outside, Bucky is whistling as he makes his way down the street to the subway station. But even that sound fades away in a few seconds, and the apartment is quiet again.

Steve lets out a shuddering breath. He wasn’t lying to Bucky, not exactly. His breathing is okay (no worse than usual, which isn’t saying much). But his head is swimming, from either a fever or something else. It seems like every year brings something else that’s wrong with him, some new diagnosis that needs more things they don’t have the money for, that makes Bucky’s mouth go tight, and his eyes get wide and worried . . .

He’d punch the pillow if he could, but his fingers shake as he tries to form a fist, and he lets out a breath of laughter.

 _Some tough guy,_ he thinks, and drifts for a minute.

He’s sitting on the beach, staring across the sunlit water. Coney Island, maybe. No, it’s too quiet—no rattling roller coaster, no shouts of kids and hot-dog vendors. The sand is too clean. Rockaway Beach. He remembers coming here when he was a kid, holding onto his mother’s hand as they walked down the stairs from the train. The water stretching out in front of him, the salty breeze . . .

Steve takes a deep breath, and is surprised when his lungs fill up smoothly, no hitches, no little stabs of pain. He does it again, and it’s the same: smooth and deep, no pain. He smiles, and tips his head back, eyes closed, feeling the sun beating down on his head and shoulders.

A shadow cuts across his face.

“Get outta my light, Bucky,” he says, smiling, although how he can tell it’s Bucky without even looking, he doesn’t know. He just can, somehow.

Bucky crouches down in the sand behind him, and puts his hands on Steve’s shoulders. Even in the sun they feel warm, the heat cutting through his thin shirt like it’s not even there.

“Hey, what—” Steve starts to say, until Bucky’s hands slide down his arms, and land on his hips.

That shuts him up fast.

He can feel his heart speeding up—but not the way it usually pounds, frantic, irregular. This is a strong, steadily increasing beat, and he can feel his blood rushing in response to the feeling of Bucky’s hands on him, tugging him back against Bucky’s chest—

Bucky’s bare chest. His breath stutters a little, not a wheeze, just a shocked little exhale. Sure, he’s been swimming with Bucky, sees the guy in his undershirt every morning, but this, the feeling of Bucky pressed firmly against him, his breath hot and sweet on the side of Steve’s face . . . That’s a whole different thing.

“Bucky,” he murmurs, not wanting to break the spell of whatever’s happening, but . . . “Bucky, what are you—”

“Would you shut up, Stevie?” Bucky says, warm, loving, his lips just brushing Steve’s skin.

He makes another sound, a sound he wouldn’t much care to name, and then—

 _Slam._ Distantly, the front door, and then Bucky’s footsteps pounding up the stairs, keys rattling against the apartment lock.

Steve jerks himself awake so fast, he tries to sit up for a second, until he realizes he still can’t, and falls back against his pillow, wheezing.

His cheeks flame when he becomes aware of how hard he is under the sheets, practically poking his way out of his shorts. As the door opens, he squirms desperately onto his stomach, heart pounding at the close call. God, if Bucky had come in while he was still sleeping—while he was saying Bucky’s name . . .

It doesn’t bear thinking about. It truly does not.

“Hey, Stevie, you’ll never guess what I got you!” Bucky says, shouldering his way through the door, and then stopping. Steve stares at him, wide-eyed, afraid Bucky can see it on him, somehow. “Hey, you’re looking a little better! Got some sleep like I said, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, trying to not let his relief show. “Got some—wait, what you _got_ me? Bucky, I _just said_ —”

“I told you to relax!” Bucky is laughing at him now, one hand hiding something behind his back. “Anyway, this was gratis, courtesy of Miss Sheila’s lovely friend Maureen, who, I’ll have you know, was very sad you weren’t there . . .”

“She was not, Buck,” Steve mutters, embarrassed.

“What, you think I'm making things up, Rogers?” Bucky says. “’Cause if you do, I guess it just means I’ll have to eat both these slices of watermelon myself, even though Maureen specifically said one was for my ‘nice little friend Mr. Rogers.’”

He waves the waxed paper bag at Steve.

“Oh, I’m your little friend, am I?” says Steve. He thinks it’s safe to turn over now, so he does, and narrowly avoids getting his legs crushed as Bucky flops down onto the end of the bed.

“My friend, little Stevie, standing up Miss Maureen Pritchard like the heartbreaker he is,” says Bucky, and reaches out to ruffle his hair. Steve ducks.

“I’ll break something all right, you try to keep that melon away from me.”

“Atta boy,” says Bucky.

He opens the bag, and hands the first slice to Steve, and then takes a bite of the second. The juice runs down the corner of his mouth, and Steve tries and fails to stop himself from staring, but Bucky just grins, eyes blue and sparkling like the water off Rockaway Beach.

“Happy birthday, Stevie.”

“Thanks, Buck,” he mumbles. The watermelon is sweet and cool, and doesn’t sting his throat one bit.


End file.
